"Robertson, R Garcia - Gone To Glory" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson R Garcia Y)

Stimulants hummed through his blood. The morning got brighter. A two-thirds g
bounce came back to his step. But Defoe hated relying on chemical imbalance --
you could fool your body only so long. The Thai stood planted in front of his
yurt, a skin hovel on wheels trimmed with camel tails. A bison hide hung over
the doorway. Defoe strolled up with a hearty "How ya doin'?"

The Tuch-Dah merely spat. Since neither could speak the other's language there
was no need for formal insults. Defoe slid silently into migi gamae, arms
hanging loose, spine aligned, right foot leading. Out the corner of his eye, he
could see Willungha and the boys settling down to watch the fun.

Giving a roar, the Thai rushed at him, arms raised, bent on snapping the spindly
Cro-Magnon in half. Defoe was well outweighed, and his sparring partner would be
immune to any sort of body blow. He seized the big right wrist with his left
hand. Pivoting sideways, he used the Neanderthal's momentum to sling the ogre
over his hip, hacking as hard as he could at the immobilized right wrist. Mean
and Ugly went butt-over-brow-ridge into a heap against one wheel of his yurt.

Willungha's boys applauded with pant hoots.

The Thai bounded right back up, snarling like a wounded lion. Favoring his right
hand, he lashed at Defoe with his left. Defoe parried with his forearm. A bad
mistake -- the glancing blow staggered him.

Grinning with feral glee, the Thal circled leftward, not even winded. The
bastard had probably gotten his beauty sleep. Defoe's right forearm felt numb,
and his lungs rasped -- a sign the medikit had reached its limits. Much more of
this, and the Thai would wear him down. Then stomp him into oblivion.

The Tuch-Dah lunged at Defoe with his left. This time Defoe ducked under the
blow, grabbing the Thal's left hand with both of his, ignoring the injured
right. Lacking the strength to go the distance, Defoe held grimly to the
Tuch-Dah's good hand. He sent the bellowing ogre cartwheeling over his shoulder,
letting the Thal's own weight and momentum bend the left wrist until it snapped.

The Neanderthal lay dazed, one wrist badly sprained, the other broken. A firm
believer in kicking a fellow when he was down, Defoe brought his boot heel
sharply down on the Thal's tattooed instep, to discourage the brute from getting
up. Mean and Ugly moaned.

Dusting himself off, Defoe glanced over at Willungha. The Tuch-Dah chieftain
gave a congratulatory grunt. Defoe was free to search the yurt. He hoped to hell
he'd find something.

As soon as he lifted the bison hide, Defoe knew that whatever was in the yurt
stank all the way to Spindle. Urine, sweat, and burning shit mixed with moldy
leather. Worming his way in, he startled a gaggle of Thai children playing
beside the central fire. They piled out past him, terrified by a Homo sapiens
bogeyman turned real.